Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious
I am making dinner for Jane and talking at the same time, which is never a good combination. Sure enough, I say one thing and mean another. Jane calls me out on the error.
"I'm sorry, Jane. I misspoke."
Jane says, "You can say that again!"
I laugh. Jane repeats herself. Five times. After the fifth iteration, I say, "You know, Jane, a joke's not funny if you keep repeating it."
"Can you say that again?" she asks. The minx. Eyes like the sea, glittering.
"You're so funny," I say.
"Tell it to Dr. X," she says. Meaning, my psychotherapist.
I am living with the world's smallest Derridean.
Labels: jane



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